


For the Life of You

by chalkia



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, and that religion is a can of worms she doesnt want to open, in which hilda learns near death experiences suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21657646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalkia/pseuds/chalkia
Summary: “Hilda, I need you to promise me something.”“Anything. Well, almost anything. What is it?”“That you’ll retreat whenever things get dire. Always.” He moves, arm leaving her shoulder to grab her hands. To cradle them between his. The green of his eyes leaves no room for joking around.  “I want you to make your survival your priority. Can you do that for me? Can you promise me that?”
Relationships: Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 2
Kudos: 75





	For the Life of You

Nature’s liveliness is so distracting.

Claude encouraged her to listen to it, immerse in it. See it for the advantage it is. It’s the best way to heighten the senses, he argues. A prerequisite for hunting.

One little detail sets everything back: she’s not a hunter. Far from it. Can’t even remember the last time she used a bow—

Why is _she_ here, again?

“Relax, Hilda,” maybe she takes that a bit too at heart, and slumps her shoulders. A breath in, she pulls the arrow a bit farther back. She ran all out of whining when he didn’t cave and let her head back to the monastery at the fourth missed arrow. Only one thing to do about it: get a damn bird to cook for damn dinner.

It doesn’t help how the chirping sounds like mockery in disguise. Nor do his watching eyes, or the way he’s pressing his hand at the small of her back to fix her posture, even if helping is literally the only point to it.

“No, not _that_ relaxed,” his laugh is breathy and an actual cloud, courtesy of the cold. “I’m confident on this shot. Don’t pull too hard—” his hand travels down when it’s about to move away, and that’s enough distraction to do what he _just_ told her not to.

Another bad shot. Another bird that’s flown away. The bowstring snapped.

“Are you kidding me!?” Her hands fly into the air (as does the bow, falling into the dirt with a thud) in exasperation. “I knew I was bad, but this is ridiculous!”

“Hey, I’m sure if you’d touched a bow once in a while during these five years you’d be killing this right now.” He pauses out of realization. “Not very golden deer of you, by the way.”

“I’ve told you, it’s not really my thing,” she digs her sole into the dirt, a pout so childish it’s nothing short of endearing to him. “Since _clearly_ I can’t hunt to save my life, can we head back now? Before a red wolf attacks and eats me? That’d lower the group’s morale for months! Better not risk it, Claude, I heard those are super common lately.”

“And come back empty handed? Yours truly promised Raphael a fine dinner, and I’m a man of my word, I’ll have you know. Don’t worry— The most you can find around this part of the forest are cute little hares.” Claude gathers his own bow as he speaks, examining the remaining arrows before looking at her again. “We’ll just have to switch gears and set plan B in motion.” 

“Which is?”

“You go mushroom picking, and I’ll see what I can hunt in the meantime. I saw a couple over that tree there, and it’d be lovely if you managed to get some berries for dessert. I’ll meet you back here in ten.” The decisive pat on her shoulder is the only heads up she gets before he sets off, arrow twirling between fingers.

Ten minutes. Worst part is, she’s sure he’ll be done earlier than that. 

Naturally, spitefully, she gets to work then. 

Not without a string of huffs following her through the path she was pointed towards, getting tangled between leaves and roots, no, but at least she’s doing something of use. Not to mention, of use to _Claude_ . Her step staggers at that. _What am I thinking_ , she laughs to herself, or in spite of. The pedestal she placed him in is getting a bit too high for her comfort. At this point, it might as well be a throne.

Plucking the mushrooms are twice the hassle when the cold seeped through her limbs, she notices. Another reason to despise winter. She cradles in her arms what she reaps due not having a sack, and when she finally stands, knees dirtied, a couple mushrooms tumble, fall, roll. 

Something moves among the trees, maybe birds taking off to flight, but she’s too busy groaning. “Ugh, it’s just one thing after another…!”

And she’s right.

Because the moment she leans near the bush to awkwardly pick them up, something presses at the nape of her neck. It’s cold. A different kind of cold. Metallic.

A dagger. She drops everything.

“Move or scream, and I’ll cut your neck open.”

One thing after another, indeed.

“On your knees. Take off anything of value. Put it on the ground, _slowly._ ”

Holst’s image has never been clearer on her mind’s eye then; she had committed to muscle memory all self defense tactics taught by him in a worried frenzy. And, as a beautiful, short and vulnerable-looking woman when she wore long sleeves, she’d be the first to admit they had been useful so far. Especially around drunk nobles, or trips downtown.

Disarming a dagger— that’s easy. Easy enough. 

She’d even practiced with Claude once, since he’s so well versed in them. Even so, she’s nervous as hell. Pushed to her knees by whoever’s behind her, her jaw tightens. Only one beat more...

Her hand catches their wrist as her body turns, fast, strong enough to throw them on the ground, as well as the dagger. Who knows where it lands. Hilda doesn’t feel their hands’ grip on her arms until she’s being brought down with them in an unceremonious thud. A tree’s aged root greets the back of her head, and it feels like the cold nips everywhere again. 

Disoriented as she is, spluttering dirt, her first instinct: get up.

That’s foiled the moment the thief scrambles to pin her down by the shoulders. Another hit to the nape at the fall’s impact, and now there’s a weight atop her, legs on both sides of her hips.

_Listen, Hilda, and listen to me well. If all else fails, scream. Make a squeal so jarring, it bursts their eardrums and leaves a ringing on yours. Bite. Claw. Anything. Your survival is your priority. Always._

There’s an attempt, of course, and it’s only a second-long squeak before a pair of hands wrap around her neck, thumbs pressing around the middle of her throat.

* * *

They’re not many, but he can tell twice the stars grace the night sky this fall than the last had, a conglomerate reflected in the gloss of his eyes. 

He closes them. For a moment, the courtyard’s grass doesn’t prickle the back of his neck, because he doesn’t picture himself being here. It’s somewhere bigger. Warmer. Rougher. Where he used to be, some time ago. Only for a moment, though. 

“You must be mad for sleeping at a place like this.” 

“I suppose I am, if that means I don’t mind a bit of a chill when stargazing.” Claude asks, tipping his head to the spot on his side. Not hesitating, Hilda wraps her coat tighter around herself and sits in a tired thud. She places the spare coat she’d brought for him on his stomach.

They don’t speak, not for a short while. 

When he finally peels his eyes off the sky to steal a glance at her, she’s moved past looking at him, pink eyes glued upwards. “Soon, these are all gonna go into hiding.” She says.

“Precisely why I have to take them in as much as I can, until that happens. Over there— how do they call it around here... the Blue Sea Star,” He words it with a detachment of sorts, and even if it comes from a different place than hers, she relates. “I hear prayers intensify around this time of year, so! Better start fessing up to the goddess.”

It almost has her raising a brow; she supposes she hasn’t talked about it, yet. 

“Hah, well, she has no business knowing what I do or don’t.” Don’t, mostly.

“Woah!” He bolts into sitting. That struck a chord he wasn’t expecting to be plucked. Unlike her, he _does_ raise a brow. “I think that might be news to me.”

“What? That I’m not actually a follower?”

“Well, yes. Kind of unthinkable for someone in Fódlan not to be, especially a noble. Though, I guess I should’ve seen it coming. I saw the way you lied to Seteth earlier today, about going to choir practice.”

She lets a huff through her nose, though it’s mostly a chuckle. “How’s that any indicator?”

“Maybe this is news to you, but lying to a priest _to their face_ is pretty, as he puts it," he clears his throat for his best Seteth voice, "morally reprehensible.”

“Hm, okay, fair point.” She pauses. “Say, you don’t seem like much of a believer yourself, Claude.”

A knowing smile. “And that, fair lady, is a talk we can put a pin to.” He brings his knee up, setting his arm on it. “Right now, this is about you, Hilda. How come _you_ are one of a kind?”

“Tell me, can you really imagine _me_ living by the goddesses’ teachings? The way Mercedes does? I’m too much of a free spirit, thank you very much. And it’s not as if I’m entirely ruling her existence out— something _has_ to be out there, maybe. Probably. It’s just… not my style.” 

Leave it to Hilda to make depositing your faith in a higher power sound like choosing the stitching on a dress.

“Not your style, you say.” He wonders: just how little does she know of other systems of belief? A free spirit like her… It reminds him of nature. There’s people who revere it, him included. Though he doubts that’s her style, either. He keeps to himself.

“Yeah. If I had it in me, I’d be one of those people that place their entire future on the goddesses’ hands, honestly. Kind of like Marianne does. The way she prays before every battle and for the souls of lost soldiers… Overall, I think it must be nice living with reassurances like that. And yet... I can’t seem to bring myself to believe.”

“That’s completely fine, Hilda. Not normal, per se, or at least not around here, but it’s fine.”

“But it isn’t. Not having a religion means not having answers like others do.” 

“To what questions?” Of course he digs deeper. It might just be her grave, she thinks.

“Oh, you know. Easy ones. Like, what happens after you die and stuff.” 

His whistle mixes with a sigh. “Bit of a loaded question, that one.”

“No kidding.” her palms flatten on the grass. The wind blowing only makes her shudder. “...I think nothing happens, in case you’re wondering.” She doesn’t wait for the air to grow thicker, and adds, “Scaaary, right?”

Fucking terrifying, actually. 

It’s why her survival is put at the forefront, always; Holst only ever cemented it as her top priority. Even with her distaste for conflict, the thought of it drives her forward— the thought of the final sentence that is death. The implications of not coming back. And what if dying is painful, too?

“Scary’s one way to put it, for sure.” 

Claude leaves it at that.

* * *

Her wheezing is a miserable, meek little sound. 

It’s shrouded by the thief’s grunting, the dirt on her eyes barely lets her get a good measure of their mask. Her gloves defeat the purpose of clawing. The lack of oxygen is dizzying, depleting her of the strength to struggle. 

_I’m dying. They’re going to kill me. And it hurts._

She’s never known distress like this.

When her hands hit the dirt, she realizes she has stopped grasping at their arms. Ah. Past the masked thief’s face, she can see the tree’s top. The birds that didn’t flee from the commotion chirp again, and it doesn’t sound like much of a mockery anymore. It’s a pretty sound to lose her consciousness to, almost a lull, even. Until a voice breaks it.

“Hil— Hilda!” A scream, rather. 

Next thing she knows after a sluggish blink, she’s under a limp, arrow-struck body. It pierces their head cleanly. Hilda’s strength is subdued by her lightheadedness, and she can only turn to her side to get rid of the dead weight as she chokes for air, spluttering spit and dirt. Claude reaches her, pushing the corpse fully off to cradle her upper body. Her eyes, what he can see of them, are teary from near asphyxiation. Soon, it’s not just a wetness, but full tears forming. Her breathing is only turning more erratic. Panicked.

He has put two and two together already to ask what happened.

“Take it easy. Deep, slow breaths. Slower, Hilda.”

 _Relax, Hilda._ You’re alive.

When she tries to call out his name, his fingers wipe the corners of her lips. His palm lingers on her jaw, “Don’t speak. It’ll only hurt.” He brings himself forth, forehead pressed to forehead. Only then does he sigh. That breath is arguably the most warmth she has felt on her skin all day.

“Cla...ude, they… I was… so sc...ared...” 

She’s trembling, and not from the cold. He picks up on it, and the fear that causes it as well. Hence, his repeated whispering: “You’re alive, you’re alive. I’m taking you back. You’ll be alright, okay?”

That’s the last thing before the strain makes being awake too much for her.

* * *

She doesn’t recall the upper right corner of her old dorm’s ceiling chipping away like that.

A breath, and then it dawns on her, much like the sunlight peeking seeping through the window, hand in hand with a chill. Is that a sunrise or a sunset? 

Despite the throb on her head from struggling to sit up, she manages. Her ankles can barely kick the blankets off, having to lean on an elbow to rest from the effort. A lot rushes back to her mind, and in the flood of it, Hilda decides she can’t be in the infirmary longer. So, here goes.

Standing on her own two feet, her knees give in before she can lean on the wall. The thud is loud, a backfire to her silent attempt at sneaking out, and the door opens in seconds.

“H-Hilda!” 

Poor Ignatz looks so puzzled. Above that, mortified when he sees how deep the bruise on her neck is. More importantly (to her), his garments give away the time of day: so it _is_ dawn. That early riser. He rushes to her, and slips his hands under her shoulders and knees. Sets her atop the bed. “Oh, thank the goddess you’re awake. We were so worried.”

She hasn’t said a thing. Can’t, really. 

Hilda stops focusing on the smear of dried paint on his collar when he says, “Stay here, I’ll go to fetch Claude!” 

By the reassuring nod he gives her, she realizes that’s supposed to comfort her.

Claude’s here in mere minutes. Sitting on the bedside in mere seconds.

“How are you feeling? Does it hurt? Your throat?” There’s a frown when he glances at her neck; the purple and red makes his stomach turn. To be fair, the purple under his eyes isn’t faint itself. He sighs, “Hilda, you stubborn goat. You shouldn’t have tried to stand on your own—”

“Raphael… where is he?” Her voice is less than a scrape of the sweet sound it is, evidently strained.

“Asleep, of course. It’s only the crack of dawn. Why?”

She swallows. Licks her lips. Nothing makes speaking easier. “I owe him an apology… I ruined dinner.”

“Do you really think any of us cared about that?” _You almost got killed_ , he doesn’t say out of prudence, but it’s implied in his offense. Hilda doesn’t reply. His hand, almost twice the size of hers, falls atop the back of her hand. “Everyone will be so relieved to know you’re alright. I know I am. That can wait, though. Manuela advised for you to rest the day off.”

“Lucky me, huh. Getting to laze around as treatment.” Despite the shortage of humor, her attempt at levity is sincere. And for her own sanity, mostly. His chuckle, though worried, is an acknowledge to her effort. “...Thanks, Claude.”

He picks her hand, laced on his own, “I’ll leave you to it, then.” And presses his mouth in a kiss along her knuckles.

* * *

The view of the town, what has survived of it these past years, is faint from this courtyard in the monastery. Drenched in the last of the red sunset light that doesn’t warm, the breeze has gone from cool to icy. Claude pulls her closer to his side by the arm on her shoulders.

Nature’s stillness is so captivating.

An exhale through her nose. She’s ready.

“It’s all fuzzy now,” Hilda begins, “but I’m pretty sure you crossed my mind at some point back when that thief attacked me. I think it was at the worst of it.”

His surprise is betrayed by the way he blinks twice, and turns to glance at her a little too quickly. Hilda doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s trying to make sense of that. “Really now?”

“You can’t make that stuff up, trust me.”

As someone who’s bordered near death more times than he can count, he agrees. But that’s to keep to himself. For now, at least.

She continues, “I know we risk our lives on a daily basis, but that… felt so close and personal. Like it lasted for hours. It’s the kind of thing that turns someone into a believer, isn’t it?”

“To some,” came his answer after a small pondering. He’d asked himself the same thing, every time a close call happened. “Did it move you?”

“It moved me, yes, but I still don’t believe in the goddess.” Certainly, it made her realize the finality of her belief, or lack thereof. “She didn’t save me. You did.”

He had shot the arrow. He had wiped the mud off her chin. Carried her all the way back. Nurtured her. If she’s certain of anything, it’s all of that.

“Not that I’m trying to make you a follower, since that’d be rich of me, but fate is a thing I’ve been wondering about lately myself." It feels like the pin he put so long ago is finally plucked. "Or… miracles. Think about it. Me, being close enough to step in at the right time. I was off hunting, what were the odds that I could’ve reached you in time?”

“So you’re saying… some merciful god pitied us and arranged the stars so that you’d reach me on time?” Her oversimplification earns a small chuckle. _Yeah, right._

“More or less. It doesn’t necessarily have to be the goddess herself. But that’s just my take on it, from the time I’ve thought about it.”

So it shook him all the same, huh.

“In any case...” her hands rub along her neck, clothed in a thick turtleneck. “I’ll still skip choir from time to time, and most _definitely_ lie to Seteth.” 

His laugh— a warmth blooms on the pit of her stomach. “You wouldn’t be the good ol’ Hilda I’ve come to cherish if you didn’t.” 

The last of the sun had sunk into the horizon, the first stars of the night spotty, but visible. 

An exhale through his nose. He’s ready.

“Hilda, I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything. Well, almost anything. What is it?”

“That you’ll retreat whenever things get dire. Always.” He moves, arm leaving her shoulder to grab her hands. To cradle them between his. The green of his eyes leaves no room for joking around. “I want you to make your survival your priority. Can you do that for me? Can you promise me that?” 

Her silence is a tad too long and entirely too revealing. All of that, she's been told before. But Hilda understands what he’s threading here, and why he does it. Claude understands, more than anyone, how scary prospect of death remains to her. Superficially reluctant but not with a particularly deep buried selflessness, she stayed in the battlefield for him. So here he is, asking her to be selfish. 

In spite of her fear and Holst’s lesson, she looks at the only man she’d bend a knee for, die for, and says, “I’ll do my best to, I can promise you that much.”

**Author's Note:**

> hilda's death quote on CF.... claude's reaction to it........ i just really wanted to add a little fuel to the fire, though this isn't necessarily set on that route. anyway i love them sm


End file.
